The Dirt on Our Hands
by Demeter2
Summary: Very intense and dramatic, not too OOC except for the smoking bit (I know it's a muggle thing but it fit the story). Very short, but extremely deep.


The Dirt on My Hands   
  
::Today I was dirty, wanted to be pretty  
I know now, I am forever dirt::  
-- The Nobodies - Marylin Manson  
  
Sometimes when I'm alone I start to have trouble breathing. Then I need another cigarette. I'll be sitting by myself, in a corner of the common-room, thinking. Pretending to read. But just thinking.   
  
My father would not approve of me thinking for myself. No, the Malfoys think as a collective. We believe in certain things, we are purer than the filth with which I share this castle. This wretched hole. All the free-thinkers. All the 'good' ones. They have never seen the other side. They have no idea how easy they have it. They don't have such high standards to live up to. They can think for themselves.  
  
******  
  
The corridors are starting to empty out, as the students head towards the Great Hall for dinner. I head towards the lake. I can think there. I almost believe, sometimes, I can feel there. Almost, but not quite. No, Malfoys have no emotion. We show no emotion. Something else my father would not approve of. We are above emotion. That is what separates us from the common classes.   
  
Lately though, I have been feeling...something. Fear? I think it must be fear. Something keeps stirring inside. Whenever I see her.  
  
Her. That gleaming radiant image of total perfection. Yet something I was raised to despise.   
  
I almost talk to her sometimes, almost say something that isn't murderous, insulting, scathing. It wouldn't be hard to make her cry. I don't want to make her cry. I'm not sure what it is I want from her. I want something. To make her feel afraid? As afraid as I feel whenever I think of her, pass her in the corridors, see her from my table in the Great Hall.   
  
I reach the lake. I strip down to my under-garments, custom made, green with the beautifully embroidered 'M' on the hem. As I swim out into the lake, my thoughts begin to clear, and she enters my mind again.  
  
She would never look upon me with anything but contempt. Why would she? I've done nothing but make her life as miserable as possible, a side-effect of my hatred towards the one she adores. Is it jealousy, envy, I feel when I look upon his face? His wretched face. She would give her life for him, and he doesn't see it. Nor does he care. Then again, technically, neither do I.  
  
******  
  
She catches me looking at her. From across the Great Hall, she catches my eye, turns away almost guiltily before looking again. Her hair is beautiful, the color of sunset. She is beautiful. The type of thing I would love to own, to keep under glass, to just say it was mine. Another treasure to add to my collection. Yes.   
  
The voices around me seem to fade out as she stares into my eyes for what seems like an eternity, though in reality must have been only a few seconds. Again, that blasted stirring of something, something, deep in the pit of my stomach, writhing, fighting to escape the clutches of my insides, now tightened and heavy as lead. Why does she do this to me? Does she know this torment?  
  
I almost think she is becoming suspicious. I've barely talked to anyone this year, not even to toss scalding comments at her brother and the 'golden boy'. I haven't even made a single remark about dirty blood since before Christmas holidays.   
  
Does she notice the look in my eyes? Does she see my softened expression? She looks suspicious, yet curious, though I can't be sure, before she turns back to her conversation with another 6th year.  
  
It takes me almost a minute to realise that Pansy is nearly shouting at me. I start and turn to her, disinterested. I've paid her little to no attention for the past two years, and still she insists on treating me as though we were dating. Or worse, married. The thought nearly makes me wretch. She's stunningly beautiful, very grown up for her 17 years, yet she and I would never be more than friends, we both knew it. Only she refused to give up.   
  
I continue the conversation enthusiastically, more to get my mind off that girl, (woman?), than anything else, but the way Pansy's face lights up is, admittedly, rewarding. People rarely pay any attention to me anymore. Now that I've outgrown petty insults and pathetic jokes, I have nothing much to say, and even fewer people to listen.  
  
******  
  
I sigh heavily. I've been in this library for hours, trying to study, but thinking about her. The way the sun shines on that marvelous firey hair, the way her pale, nearly translucent skin glows when she laughs or smiles. The way she always looks new, fresh. She isn't like the other girls, not obsessed with make-up and other ridiculous things, but always managing to look perfect. And wonderfully developed physically. Her body is exquisite, and no robes could hide her curves....beautiful curves.  
  
I mentally berate myself. No girl, beautiful or otherwise, is going to cause emotion. I nearly vomit thinking of the word.  
  
Then I hear it. A soft laugh, whispers. I know it's her. I could recognise her voice anywhere. Her and Granger. The fucking bitch. It's not enough that her best friend incessantly beats me at Quidditch, I constantly get angry letters from my father about my grades, about how I come from a pure-blood family and should be mastering the mudbloods at this school. My stupid fucking father and his stupid fucking beliefs. I don't know what I believe anymore.   
  
I remember the last time I talked to him. That conversation was the very reason I had chosen, for once, to stay at Hogwart's over the holidays. I had told him I didn't believe all his bullshit about 'our side' and 'winning the battle' and even some of Voldemort's rants about pure blood. Luckily, my bruises and scars healed before I returned for my seventh and final year here.   
  
I see her from behind the bookshelf, admiring the way she walks, the way she pushes her glorious hair from her face as she bends over a book, examining a spell of some sort. She smiles, slightly, but the whole contrast of her face changes, illuminates. I watch for long minutes, just staring at her face. I feel half numb, half extremely ill, as though I'd eaten something gone seriously bad. It takes a moment for me to notice she's alone. Granger must be off somewhere, getting more books. I lick my lips. Without knowing what I'm about to do, or having any control over it, I get up, walk slowly around the bookshelf, until I'm standing in front of her.  
  
She doesn't notice me right away, but I move forward slightly, and a shadow flickers across the text. She looks up, startled, her wonderful brown eyes staring into mine. She looks....frightened? Surprised?   
  
"Can I do something for you?" Her voice burns. My mouth is suddenly full of ashes. "Say something now, Malfoy, or leave me alone."  
  
I reach up to touch her face, running a finger along her jawline. She seems almost mesmerized, like a small animal facing a cobra. My fingers graze her cheek, then trail down her neck. And suddenly, she seems to regain her bearings.  
  
"Don't touch me." She nearly hisses the words. My hand snaps back, as though I had just touched a hot iron.   
  
I stumble over the words, looking down, ashamed. "I....I just...I'm sorry, Ginny."  
  
I can't recall ever fleeing so fast in my entire life.  
  
******  
  
How long has it been since I've eaten? Ages. I smoke whenever I get the chance. Between classes, during meal-times, as I don't eat anyway, during my free time. I'm outside, in the gardens. I don't know how long I've been out here. I slowly burn the flesh of my arm with the lit cigarette, between drags. The scent, the taste of burning flesh. Bittersweet. Satisfying.  
  
I light another cigarette off the first. I hold it for a moment, unsure of what I'm doing with it. The blue smoke curls along my fingers, making patterns in the air. I drive my hand into the soft earth, my fist is full of dirt. Such dirty hands I have.   
  
Someone is watching me. I look around furtively, take another drag, exhale slowly. I can see the moonlight relfecting off her white, white skin. I can't tell whether I'm dreaming or not. Patterns swim in front of my eyes.  
  
"Mal-" She stops suddenly. "Draco? What are you doing out here?"   
  
I laugh softly to myself. "I'm killing myself. Don't you see? Slowly, yes, but I am, ultimately, commiting suicide."   
  
She approaches slowly, cautiously sitting down across from me. She fumbles with the pack of cigarettes sitting beside me, removes one, lights it. As we smoke, we are silent. I can hear the coal eating away at the paper and tobacco. The smoke unfurls itself and surrounds us, her and I, together. As close as I will ever to come to being with her.  
  
She's staring at me. What is that look in her eyes? I know it. I've seen it before...only...from the inside looking out? I've dropped my cigarette, now, my hand is moving towards her face, her hair. She is motionless, paralyzed. Suddenly, inexplicably, we are much closer together, our faces barely inches apart. I can feel her breath, gentle, warm, soothing. The innocence of her eyes nearly kills me. My hand reaches toward her throat, caressing gently the soft, impeccable flesh. Why must she be so perfect? Untouched and innocent.   
  
Her lips are slightly parted as mine claim them, softly, tenderly. My grip on her becomes stronger. My other hand is joining the first, tightening my hold. She barely notices as I slowly draw my hands together around her slender neck. Then, she starts. She can't breathe very well; no, now she can't breathe at all. She looks us at me, not with fear in her eyes, but something else that I am unfamiliar with. She doesn't look surprised, nor angry. She looks...resigned.   
  
Then the look is gone. Her eyes stare blankly into space. Her previously smooth, perfect neck is now mottled purple and black, with wide red welts across the lily-white flesh. I stand up, light another cigarette.   
  
Stepping over her lifeless body, I head towards the castle.  
  
****** 


End file.
